


Same Coin

by tricksterstilinski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Past Abuse, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, slight manipulation of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterstilinski/pseuds/tricksterstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes of Draco and Harry after the war</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Coin

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little incoherent but w/e 
> 
> rated m for language and violence because i really don't know how to rate fic 
> 
> warnings explained in end notes!!

The first time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, Draco is in chains. He’s sitting in a cage, in the middle of a courtroom full of witches and wizards who lost family in the war and he’s absolutely certain that in less than an hour, he’s going to be sent to Azkaban. He’s also certain that when Kingsley Shacklebolt stands up and asks if anyone would like to speak on Draco’s behalf, that the only response will be resounding silence.

Instead, he hears a voice. A voice he knows.

The first time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, Harry Potter saves his life. Again. They give him parole, order to him to return to Hogwarts and finish his education, which he assumes is the only way they could have him under twenty-four-hour supervision without sending him to prison. God forbid they condemn the Chosen One’s charity case. When they take the chains off, he sees Harry across the courtroom, and when their eyes meet Harry gives him a tentative smile. Draco has to repress an urge to fight his way through the courtroom and punch him squarely in the mouth. He forces himself to instead return Potter’s good wishes with an icy glare before looking away, allowing himself to be led from the room by several Aurors.

He goes home alone, his mother having been effectively exiled and his father having been sent to Azkaban; apparently Potter didn’t deign to be the hero when his father was in chains. For two weeks, he lives in the Manor alone, not even house-elves left to keep him company. For two weeks, every corner he turns reveals another memory that makes his stomach turn, another nightmare.

The dining room is Charity Burbage being devoured by a snake, while his mother grips his hand under the table to stifle his reaction. The parlor is Aunt Bellatrix carving ‘Mudblood’ into Hermione Granger’s arm while she screams so loudly he feels his ears might bleed. The garden is children younger than him writhing in pain as he performs the Cruciatus Curse, the Dark Lord standing just behind his shoulder and whispering praise into his ear. It’s also his own body contorting in pain while he faces down a Cruciatus curse far more powerful than his own, red eyes staring down at him.

One night he wakes up screaming, still able to feel the pain like fire burning his skin from the inside out, and he makes a decision. He leaves as soon as he can force his legs to move, and he never looks back. He stays in Muggle hotels because he knows no magical establishment will have him. When September arrives and he has to catch the train back to school, the thought of being surrounded by people he knows, who know him, know what’s done, makes him sick.

The thought of ever having to see Harry Potter again makes him furious.  

**

The second time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, he’s lying in the Hospital Wing for the sixth time that year, staring blankly at the ceiling and waiting for the bones in his left arm to grow back. He’d seen the hex coming, just like all the other times before, but at this point he’s run out of energy to cast a Shield or move out of the way. He’s come to prefer the peace and solitude of the hospital wing to the rest of the castle.

He’s been in and out of consciousness for hours, drifting between nightmares both real and imagined. He’s not sure if it’s the sharp pain in his arm as yet another bone snaps into place or the door slamming open that wakes him, but it’s a voice that makes him pay attention. A voice he knows.

“I don’t know Hermione, it just happened!”

The voice is shouting, and Madam Pomfrey is shouting back for the voice to be quiet so she can do her job. If Draco listens closely he can hear more voices, whispering among themselves. He thinks he knows those voices too, is sure of at least Granger’s, which means the Weasel is probably responsible for the whispers that are accompanied by a variety of expletives.

“Yes, you’ve said that Harry.” Granger, louder this time. “But magic doesn’t just come from nothing. You could have easily cast a non-verbal spell without realising.”

“Nobody’s blaming you, mate.” Weasel adds, obviously aiming to diffuse what Draco is quickly realising is his ticking time bomb of a best friend. The voices are getting closer now, and across the room Draco hears bedsprings creak as Madam Pomfrey lowers someone onto a bed. The voices stop, replaced by the sound of Madam Pomfrey shuffling and bottles clinking as she sets them on the nightstand.

Then, suddenly, “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” There’s a moment of silence. The other voices don’t seem to know how to respond. Then, barely a whisper, “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

“Oh, Harry.” Granger again, her tone so sickly sweet and sympathetic that Draco can feel his teeth rotting.

Potter seems to feel the same way, retorting with a singular, “Don’t.” which is followed by footsteps heading in Draco’s direction. Potter passes his bed without seeming to notice him, heading towards the more isolated corner of the Hospital Wing. His hands are balled into tight fists, his hair even more untidy than usual, as though he’s been running his hands through it. He gets several feet past Draco’s bed before he stops, and Draco can hear his trainers squeak on the floor as he turns around.

Several more footsteps, and then he’s standing at the foot of Draco’s bed, his expression curious. Neither of them speak, nor do they look away from each other. It seems as though hours pass as they stare, the silence between them growing and growing until Draco can feel it like a weight on his chest. Potter is staring at Draco like he’s never seen him before, as though seeing Draco silent and passive is like seeing a stranger.

And Draco understands, because the version of Potter he sees standing there, staring, is not one he’s sure he recognizes either. It’s not his face that’s changed, or his body, or even his clothes. It’s his eyes. When Potter used to look at him, his eyes would be burning, with fury or indignation or some other kind of hatred. Now they seem empty, as though the year behind them put out the fire that once lit them.

Perhaps some of the fire has gone out of Draco, too.

Finally, when the pressure on his chest threatens to choke him, he opens his mouth. “You look bloody awful.”

For a moment, Potter doesn’t answer, just continues to stare back at Draco. He looks confused, and somewhat shocked at what Draco has said. After a while Draco begins to seriously worry he’s lost the ability to speak. Then, “At least my arm still works.”

“So I’ve heard.” Draco says, finding it ridiculously easy to let his voice revert to the smug drawl he’d used to speak to Potter for the past eight years. “Works well enough to nearly kill yet another classmate, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” And just like that, he’s Potter again, the fire that was missing from his eyes burning brightly. Draco has to try not to smile at the predictability of Potter’s reaction.

“Of course not.” Draco says, moving somewhat awkwardly into a sitting position. “I’m sure it was just another tragic accident. Although, if I recall correctly, your last ‘accident’ left me with permanent scars.”

Potter steps forward seemingly on instinct, his eyes nearly glowing with rage. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

This time, Draco does smile. “Or what? You’ll finish the job this time?”

Before he can react, Potter’s wand is raised, pointed directly at Draco’s face. Draco doesn’t flinch. Instead, he closes his eyes and waits. It would only be right if Potter was the one to end his agony, given that he’s largely responsible for it.

The spell never comes; Granger does.

“Harry!” Her voice is no longer sickly sweet but loud and panicked, cracking on the end of Potter’s name. When Draco opens his eyes he sees her hand wrapped around Potter’s wrist, her eyes wide as she tries desperately to make him lower his wand. The Weasel is behind her, the same terrified expression on his face.

Potter blinks, and when his eyes open again the fire is gone. Hermione’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist, and she tugs on him gently to get his attention. When Potter turns to face her, her expression softens from fear to that unbearable sympathy that Draco had heard in her voice. He watches as Potter turns away from her and leaves, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the Hospital Wing until he reaches the door. It slams, and then, there’s nothing.

Nothing, until Granger turns to face him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“As I recall, it was Potter who was threatening me.”

“And I’m sure you had nothing to do with it.” Weasel chimes in, folding his arms to create the unnerving effect of a disapproving father. Draco doesn’t respond to the accusation, choosing instead to force a neutral expression.

Granger is more of the same, a chiding expression overcoming her features. “After everything that’s happened, I would have thought –“

“Thought what?” Draco snaps, cutting her off. “Thought that I would become another one of his faithful admirers? Thought that I would bow down and beg for mercy from the Chosen One? I _thought_ you were supposed to be smart, Granger.”

“And I _thought,_ ” Granger replies hotly, advancing in much the same way that Potter had minutes earlier. “That you were supposed to be reformed. But apparently, that was a foolish assumption. You’re just the same as you always have been.”

Draco keeps his face blank, and Granger seems to deflate, retracing the step she’d taken towards him. There’s another moment of silence, and just before it becomes unbearable enough for Draco to break it, Granger does.

“Come on, Ron.”

And they’re gone.

**

The third time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, he’s not sure it’s him at first. Draco hasn’t moved from his spot at the edge of the lake for three hours, midnight has come and gone, and the dark is so complete and dense that when he sees something moving at the edge of his vision he writes it off as his imagination. It wouldn’t be the first time his nightmares came for him when he was still awake.

The first night after the war, he was arrested, dragged from his home in the dead of night and thrown into a holding cell in Azkaban. It was dark there too, and despite the way his bones ached and his eyes struggled to stay open, he couldn’t find sleep. Hours passed where the only sound he heard was his own shallow breathing, and then, it wasn’t just his breathing he could hear. The realization that he was no longer alone hit him like he’d struck by lightning, and his eyes snapped open, searching the room for the source of the sound.

All he saw was darkness.

And then the snake opened her eyes.

Draco had screamed that night, screamed until his lungs gave out and his vocal chords failed to produce sound. But that had been the first night, and now, so many months later, he doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t want to see what’s coming.

Instead, he reaches into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, a muggle habit that he picked up when he was living in London. He opens the pack and brings a cigarette to his lips, his fingers trembling slightly in the cold November air. It takes him three tries to light it, and when he finally does he inhales deeply, closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of smoke making its way to his lungs.

He likes the burn; the way he can feel the smoke slowly eroding the cells from the inside out. It feels like the fire he’s used to from months before, except this time he’s in control. He only hurts when he wants to.

He’s in control.

When he opens his eyes again, the figure from the corner of his vision is standing directly in front of him, except this time it’s not a shadow. This time it’s Potter.

“You’re staring.” Draco says, because he is, his eyes boring into Draco even through the darkness.

Potter keeps staring.

Draco stares back.

“You were rude to me.” Potter says after a minute, and Draco raises an eyebrow.

“And?”

Potter hesitates. He looks at his trainers, then back at Draco. “Most people aren’t.”

Draco laughs cruelly, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Of course not. Who would dare to do anything but praise the Chosen One?”

“See, that’s what I mean!” Potter shouts, and Draco can see the fire in his eyes again, as if they’re glowing in the darkness. “You’re just – “Potter stops, seeming to choose his words. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“I’m sorry that I’m not ready to fall at your feet, Potter, but did it ever occur to you that when you killed the Dark Lord – “

“Voldemort.”

Draco lets his eyes widen in disbelief at Potter’s interruption, and then continues, shouting now. “Voldemort! When you killed Voldemort, you may have saved the whole of fucking Wizardkind but you may as well have killed me too. My father is living out the rest of his days in Azkaban, my mother is in fucking Germany living with Muggles, and I’m doing my probation at a school where I can’t make it to my classes without getting hexed. It’s great, for you and your friends, I’m really bloody pleased for you, but if you want me to kneel down and worship you for making me a pariah, you can bugger off.”

“I’m sorry, Malfoy, would you rather I let him live?” Harry shouts, his eyes still blazing. Draco takes another drag of his cigarette.

“No, Potter, of course not, don’t you listen? I said I would rather you have killed me too and saved me the trouble of having to do it myself.”

This stops Potter short. He looks blankly at Draco, his breath still coming hard and fast in his anger. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard?’ Draco smiles wryly, gesturing to his cigarette. “Smoking kills.”

“You prat.” Potter is angry again, and he takes a threatening step towards Draco. “I was actually…”

“Worried?” Draco finishes, amused by Potter’s loss for words. He shakes his head. “Don’t make me laugh.”

This time it’s Potter that laughs, a choked, disbelieving sound. “You think I want you dead?”

“No, of course not. If you did, you wouldn’t be Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Saviour of-“

“Malfoy!” and this time Potter’s voice is so loud that it makes Draco flinch. Potter is staring at him incredulously, his brows knitted together and his eyes wide. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “I didn’t ask for any of this, you know. I didn’t ask to be the Chosen One, or the Saviour or whatever the fuck people think I am. I don’t want it.”

Draco stares at him for a long moment, and then he stands, tossing the stub of his cigarette onto the frozen ground. “Tough shit, Potter. You’ve got it.”

**

The fourth time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, he’s the last person on earth Draco wants to see. He’s been wandering about the castle for hours, revelling in its emptiness. It seems as though every other student in the castle has returned home for the winter holidays, and he fully intends to take advantage of being able to walk down the corridors without having to dodge hexes. He’s not really paying attention to his surroundings, allowing his mind to drift and his feet to carry him wherever they please. But when he ends up in a corridor on the seventh floor that he recognizes, he stops dead.

Those responsible for the repairs done on the castle had clearly made a concerted effort here, but it’s obvious that the Fiendfyre had done more damage then they could ever hope to undo. The door that once concealed the Room of Requirement is gone now, replaced with a gaping hole in the stone wall, the edges of which are singed.

Before Draco has time to stop himself, he finds himself sucked into his memories as though he’s looked through a Pensieve. He’s in sixth year again, walking through the same corridor, looking over his shoulders so frequently his neck starts to get sore. He’s standing in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, working for hours at a time to repair it. He’s extending his arm through the darkness the grip his Aunt’s hand, helping her into the castle.

And then he’s surrounded by flames, and he can hear Vincent screaming, but he doesn’t dare look, can’t bear to see his friend burn. And then there’s a hand reaching towards his, those damn green eyes boring into his, shouting for him to hold on. The heat is too much for him to bear, and no matter how fast Potter flies they’re never going to make it out of here alive, and then he’s coughing his lungs out on the floor of the corridor. Vincent is dead, but he is somehow, by some strange miracle, alive.

As he stands in the burned out entryway to the Room of Requirement he wishes, not for the first time, that Potter had let him burn.

Draco doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching him until it’s too late, and he doesn’t bother turning around to see who it is. He already knows.

“Shouldn’t you be off celebrating?” Draco says, because silence makes his skin itch.

Potter is standing to his right, and though Draco keeps his gaze fixed forward, he can feel Potter’s eyes on him. He sees Potter shrug out of the corner of his eye, hears him sigh.

“I needed to be alone, I guess.” He says, as though it’s not insane that the man who won the war would rather be alone in a castle with a Death Eater than celebrating the holidays with his friends.

“And yet, here you are, bothering me.” Draco quips, finally turning his head to glare at his unwanted companion.

“I’m not sorry, you know.”

Draco snorts. “Of course not, you’ve always loved following me around.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Potter says, and Draco stops breathing. “I’m not sorry for saving your life, and I’m not sorry for keeping you out of Azkaban either.”

Draco doesn’t have a clever reply for that, so he looks away, back to the scorched wreckage before them. He doesn’t know how to handle Potter when they’re not fighting, isn’t sure how to respond to his unbidden kindness.

“I don’t need your pity, Potter.” Draco finally manages, and moves to walk away, but Potter wraps his hand around his arm.

“That’s not what this is, Malfoy.” He says, his voice urgent and almost pleading. Draco is stunned by his sincerity, and finds himself unable to look away from Potter’s eyes, which are full of fire once again, but of a different kind than he’s accustomed to.

“Than what is it?” His voice comes out shakier than he would have liked, and he curses himself for being affected this way. Potter is still gripping his arm hard enough that he thinks it might bruise.

“I’m not sure.” Potter says, releasing his arm as suddenly as he had grabbed it. For a moment, they stand inches apart – Potter staring intently at him and Draco unable to look away. And then Potter turns around and all but runs in the opposite direction.

**

The fifth time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, it’s not entirely unwelcome. Draco has taken to studying in the stands of the Quidditch pitch, wrapped in as many cloaks and scarves as he can manage, preferring the cold air to the harassment he would have to endure in the library. Or the common room. Or anywhere else in the castle, really.

It’s mid-January, and Draco finds himself starting to count the days until end of term, and the subsequent end of his parole. It doesn’t feel so far away anymore, and lately he’s begun to feel some of the weight lift off his chest. Just five more months. He can take another five months.

He’s been making good progress on a Potions essay when he’s interrupted by a flash of red on the field below, and he looks up to see Potter mounting his broom with practiced ease. For the first time in years, Draco doesn’t loathe the sight of him. In fact, it’s almost comforting. It shouldn’t be, he knows that, and so he forces himself to return to his essay.

That lasts the ten minutes that Potter is in the air, after which he lands gracefully in front of Draco and dismounts, raising an eyebrow at him.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Studying.” Draco says shortly, eager to return to his essay and quell the feeling of almost contentment that he feels around Potter. He can’t explain it, and he doesn’t want to examine it, so he tries to push it away.

Potter frowns. “On the Quidditch pitch?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

Draco laughs coldly. “Well, as of yet, no one as tried to hex me out here.”

Potter’s frown deepens, his eyebrows touching at the top of his nose. “They shouldn’t be hexing you in the castle.”

“Try telling them that.”

“I have.” Potter mutters, as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and Draco feels fury ignite him so quickly it’s a wonder he doesn’t hex Potter on the spot. All the comfort in Potter’s presence has disappeared, replaced with a perplexing sense of betrayal. For some reason, Draco had thought his encounters with Potter were coincidences, but now he realizes they were just another opportunity for Potter to play hero. How naïve he’d been.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” Draco says through gritted teeth, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Harry looks up, his expression softening. He seems to have taken Draco’s scathing words as thanks. “You didn’t have to.”

Draco shakes his head, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to keep looking at Potter’s face. “You _shouldn’t_ do that.”

“I’m just trying to help.” Draco can hear confusion and hurt in Potter’s voice and it somehow manages to make him angrier.

“I don’t need your help, Potter!” Draco shouts, opening his eyes and abruptly to his feet. “I’m not some charity case for the Saviour to take on. I don’t want your pity, and I certainly don’t need you to protect me. If I wanted to stop them hexing me, I would. I’m not incompetent that I can’t stop first years from trying to Stun me. So just stop it, alright?”

Potter looks stunned by his outburst, and it gives Draco a sick sense of satisfaction. He’s always loved this, making Potter flinch.

“You want me to let people hex you.”

“I want you to leave me the fuck alone, actually.” Draco spits, bending over to collect his Potions essay, and beginning to make his way out of the stands.

“Alright.” Potter says, and it stops Draco mid-stride, how broken his voice sounds. When he turns to face Potter, he’s mounting his broom, his expression unreadable.

“That’s it?” Draco asks, and Potter shrugs.

“That’s it.”

**

The sixth time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, it’s been months. Draco hasn’t seen Potter anywhere, not the Great Hall, not in their classes, not in the corridors. For the first month he’d chalked it up to coincidence, but now he knows it to be intentional. The realization is a painful one, much to Draco’s surprise, and as the days and weeks go by he inexplicably finds himself missing Potter. He misses the fire in his eyes, misses the way he would let Draco snap and curse at him without raising his wand.

It takes a while, but Draco comes to realize that Potter – more accurately, fighting with Potter – had been the only thing about his return to Hogwarts that felt normal. The past eight years of his life had been defined by his hatred for Potter, and now that it’s gone, he feels lost. He’s back to being nothing more than an ex-Death Eater who lost the war.

He thinks that maybe, that’s why Potter sought him out. Because to Draco, Potter has always been Potter. Not the Chosen One, or the Saviour. He has always been that boy that rejected him in their first year, the same boy that followed him around in sixth year. The same boy that nearly killed him. The same way that Potter made Draco feel like more than just a Death Eater, Draco made Potter feel like more than just a hero. Draco feels ashamed for not realizing it sooner, and even worse for turning Potter away.

So when Draco sees Potter again, it’s a relief.  

He no longer needs a myriad of scarves to venture outside, the cool but not icy April air requires only a wool coat and thin gloves for his usual afternoon walk to the lake. He’s taken to spending the majority of his time outside now that the weather will accommodate it, and even with the warming of the air he finds himself alone in his usual spot by the lake.

But not today. He knows it’s Potter long before he reaches him, and he has to tamp down a smile. Know that he knows, or thinks he knows, what Potter needs him to be, he can’t go running up to him grinning like a fool. He takes another drag of his half-gone cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the clouds above him. Potter is facing the lake, and when Draco reaches his side, he doesn’t turn to face him, his eyes fixed on something Draco can’t see.

The silence between them lasts only moments before Draco feels compelled to break it, and he chooses his words carefully before speaking. “I thought you were going to leave me alone.”

Potter turns to look at him, and for a moment, Draco is afraid he’s made a mistake. And then, Potter smiles. “Old habits.” He says.

This time, Draco doesn’t fight the smile.

**

The twentieth time Draco Malfoy sees Harry Potter after the war, everything changes. It’s the first week of May, and Draco’s spot by the lake has become Potter’s spot as well. For the most part, they don’t speak. Draco smokes and writes essays, and Potter watches him smoke and scribbles what Draco can only assume is an attempt at writing an essay on pieces of parchment.

When they do speak, it usually devolves into bickering and insults, but there’s much less animosity than in their past, and Draco more often than not smiles when he curses at Potter. It feels easy to be around him, and Draco hasn’t felt this much like himself since before the war.

The first week of May, they’re sitting out by the shore, and Draco has his quill between his teeth while he flips through a textbook looking for the name of a spell he’s forgotten while Potter lies on his back with his eyes closed, apparently sun tanning while Draco slaves over and essay. Typical. Draco has been watching him out of the corner of his eye for the past half an hour, and then when he’s sure Potter is asleep, he turns his full attention to him.

It’s something he’s done more and more frequently over the past weeks, and at first when he’d caught himself watching Potter, he’d chastised himself, chalking it up to the strangeness of the proximity and nothing more. And then he started noticing things.

Things like the way Potter’s lips curve slightly higher on the right than the left when he smiles at Draco, and the way his eyes light up when he makes a joke at Draco’s expense. Draco thinks he’s always noticed Potter’s eyes, and it’s been weeks since the fire had been gone from them. But now he notices the length of Potter’s eyelashes, the way they brush his cheeks when he closes his eyes. He notices that no matter how hard Potter tries to tame his hair it won’t stay down, and he’s come to memorize the expression of frustration that overtakes Potter’s features when the wind catches the strands.

He notices the way his own breath catches just slightly when he comes down the hill to see Potter waiting for him, the way his heart skips a beat when Potter smiles at the sight of him. He tries not to notice these things; tries to pretend they don’t exist.

But now he catches himself staring at the way Potter’s chest rises and falls as he sleeps beside him, somehow trusting Draco not to hex him while he’s completely vulnerable, and he knows. He knows these things aren’t small things, or unimportant things. He knows that it’s not just friendship or normalcy that he seeks from his visits from Potter, and for a moment he loses the ability to breathe.

When Potter wakes, his brilliant green eyes meeting Draco’s gaze, he smiles, sleepy and content and beautiful, and Draco _knows._

Draco kisses him before he can stop himself, leaning down to press their lips together, forcing himself to be gentle, holding back the fire he feels burning in his chest. It’s chaste and soft and it only lasts a second before he pulls away, searching Potter’s eyes for some sign of his reaction.

He sees nothing, only a blankness which he had forgotten Potter’s eyes could manage. He pulls back instantly, sitting up as quickly as he can and turning to face the lake, cheeks burning with shame. He feels Potter sit up beside him, but he doesn’t – can’t – look at the expression on his face.

It’s only seconds before Potter speaks, but it feels like an eternity.

“I forgave you a long time ago, Draco.” He says, and Draco nearly flinches at the use of his first name. Instead, he turns to meet Potter’s gaze, which is once again full of fire and fixed on him. It’s heavy, that gaze, and Draco has to fight not to look away.

“Why?” Is the only response he can think of, and he means it. Forgiveness isn’t something he’s found for himself, he hardly expects anyone else to bother.

Potter smiles, and it’s so genuine that Draco feels his breath hitch. “We’re not very different, you know. You didn’t have a choice, and I didn’t understand that then, but I do now. What people think of me; it wasn’t a choice I made. It wasn’t something I asked for. It’s the same for you.”

Draco stares at him, searching his eyes for a hint of pity or a lie but finds none. He swallows hard, gathering courage to say something, anything. Finally, “And you? What do you think of me?”

This time, it’s Potter that kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so in this fic Draco has some moments where he wished he hadn't survived the war/mentions to Harry that he wishes he was dead, etc. So if you think that could affect you negatively you should probably avoid this! 
> 
> Also the past abuse is referencing the violence and emotional manipulation Draco faced at the hands of Voldemort during the war, it's a very brief and non-graphic mention but still, read at your own discretion.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I love you! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at dracosmalfovs if you wanna talk


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